


This Other Side To Me

by thefirstfewchapters



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 14:11:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4669568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefirstfewchapters/pseuds/thefirstfewchapters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Red, Lizzie and a piano.<br/>Lizzington.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Other Side To Me

**Author's Note:**

> Lizzington Shippers FB Group Secret Hiatus Fic.
> 
> For Sandy Claus - who wanted something sentimental and . . . well . . . I hope that this fits the bill in some way.
> 
> I am the least sentimental person on the planet so this is very much outside my writing comfort zone. (And I'm truly sorry for the moments when my angst-loving tendencies got the better of me!)
> 
> Mac first appeared in an as yet unfinished and therefore unpublished thing I wrote as an addendum to The Kingmaker in Season 1.
> 
> This is AU and set some while into the future.
> 
> With grateful thanks to A.I.McVay, for the drums, especially. And immense kudos to FilmsAreFriends who really pushed me in the right direction with her comments. You are both the best. All mistakes contained herein are completely my own.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing, make no profit and am only doing this for fun.

He first found the place the night Lizzie asked him if he killed Sam and then left his hotel room in a blast of bitingly cold fury. How long ago that seemed now. A fittingly storm-burdened night that had been heavy with bitterness, regrets and anger.

He had left the room some time after Lizzie and simply allowed himself to be soaked cold in the rain until his feet walked him to the club's door as if in self preservation.

The club was empty apart from Mac, its seemingly solitary bartender, who was cleaning and polishing glasses before stacking them neatly back onto shelves. He had eyed the late night visitor with a slice of concern, and Dembe even more so as he shadowed in behind Red and placed himself wordlessly in a corner.

Since that night, Red had visited often.

He usually arrived past midnight, when he couldn't sleep, and generally there was no one else there but Mac; in fact, there were times Red wondered how the place kept going. Sometimes he and Mac talked; sometimes not.

A tumbler of whisky and a solitary seat at the piano allowed him to compose himself and try to come to terms with whatever troubles were presently festering in his life. Particularly those relating to Elizabeth Keen.

So, it seemed the obvious choice when he needed somewhere. Somewhere she didn't know and which might allow him to show her something about himself that might possibly cast a different light on the Raymond Reddington she was so familiar with.

She knew many things about him now. About his past. About their connection.

But one thing he had kept carefully hidden was that for the longest time he had been in love with her.

Deeply and irrevocably.

In love.

At least ...

He thought he had kept it hidden.

Their work was almost finished. The Blacklist was well on its way to completion, the Cabal was almost eliminated, and he had finally unearthed courage enough to try and ask her to spend a little non-work-related time with him. It had taken a few weeks to work his way around to the subject but he had finally succeeded.

Because, he had to know. If there was a chance.

Or if, when the List was ended, their acquaintance would also be finished. Their alliance. Their ... whatever it was they had.

He knew what he wanted for the future. However, he didn't know what she wanted. Which was probably because he had never revealed what *he* wanted. He had become so adept at hiding his feelings and emotions over the years, he was sure she had no idea. Successful profiler or not.

And despite being a very successful criminal, whose life depended on accurately interpreting the facial expressions and body language of those he dealt with, he had no real idea how Elizabeth Keen truly felt about him. Because he was too scared to try and look too deeply.

He hadn't wanted to delude himself into thinking, hoping, or believing that there were emotions and feelings where there were, in fact, none. Because that would be beyond the hardest thing to deal with. It would hurt and scar him far more than the flames that had seared the skin from his back. So, he had tried to keep things professional. Up to a point. He had mocked her. Joked with her. Been sarcastic. Been smug. Been an absolute royal pain in the ass. Had even, on occasion, been tender. Kind. Thoughtful.

But never ... loving. Or anything that could in any way be construed as ... romantic.

Sometimes it had been incredibly hard to keep his emotions in check because, of course, through the years, certain situations had required that he dance with her, hold her in his arms to comfort her, feel the weight of her head fall against his shoulder … touch her. And, sometimes, he had almost given in to temptation. Because he was human and the whole enterprise had proved much, much harder than he had ever realised it was going to be.

He couldn't recall now, from this distance of time, when exactly the lines in the sand washed away and he was standing lost and helpless and confused ... because he was in love. But he knew he had spent a long time denying the fact that he was in love; and then he spent a long, long time trying to ignore the fact that he was in love; and then he spent an even longer time trying not to give in to the temptations of being in love. 

It had taken him by surprise.

But he thought he had hidden it well.

He hoped he had hidden it well.

Tonight he wanted to draw back the veil a fraction and begin to let her see something of what he had tried to keep concealed for so long.

He wanted to test the waters a little. Because if she didn't feel something for him, when this was all over he would have to disappear from her life forever, as he wouldn't be able bear anything else.

And he would fully understand if she didn't see him in the same light as he saw her. After all, he was not ... quite her age. He was not exactly tall, and was certainly not romantically dark-haired anymore. He wasn’t even classically handsome. And he was all too clearly lacking a six-pack.

He was, however, heading towards a bald crown. Suffering from a rather temperamental knee along with other achy joints. And was definitely, as she had once pointed out, rather emotionally damaged. Therefore, he would not by any stretch of his own imagination call himself a great catch. In fact, he had wrestled with the gnawing beast of his total unsuitability and complete lack of worth for a woman like Lizzie until his already fractured sleep patterns had become nightly descents into fissures of doubt and despair, and he had plummeted into depressing new depths of critical self-loathing.

But ...

In the end ...

He had decided ...

If he didn't at least give things a chance, open his heart a little, he would regret it forever.

If she turned him down, at least he would know.

As difficult and heart-breaking as that would be ... he would know.

'I would like us to celebrate, a little.' He didn't want to sound too keen. 'After all we've managed to work together for all this time. Quite successfully, too. And I feel we should mark the occasion in some fashion. Nothing too fancy,' - he didn't want to overdo it - 'but I have a place in mind. I visit there quite often and ... well ... I think you'd enjoy it, too.' Please, he thought, please don't let me look too much like a hopeful puppy. And if she says no, please, please let me hold it together long enough to get out of her sight before I look like my world just crashed through the floor.

She looked at him suspiciously, which was fair enough because this was not typical behaviour for him. And he knew he was working hard at trying to look neutral and ignore any intrusive thoughts he might have about her profiling mind ticking away behind those narrowed blue eyes.

Please just let her take up the offer.

Lizzie decided to take up Red's offer because ... well, it provided an opportunity to spend some non-Blacklist-related time with him. And who knew how many more chances for that there would be. She had been hedging around how she could ask him on a date-but-not-a-date outside of work for some while, without ever coming up with a solution to the problem.

And it was a problem, because if, when all this was over, he just disappeared into the wind, she would be devastated. Beyond devastated.

But she hadn't really told him that. There really hadn't been the opportunity, what with finishing off the List and trying to survive bringing down major international conspiracies and such.

And she was somewhat worried that he would think that any move on her part would be because of a sense of obligation; that he would think she believed she owed him so much for the protection and care he had provided over the years, both before she knew what their true connection was and afterwards.

And, although she *was* thankful for all that, thankful was not what she felt for him.

Her feelings ran much deeper and much truer than that.

Which had taken her by surprise when she first realised what was going on. When she realised she was spending considerable amounts of time thinking increasingly romantic thoughts about the FBI's Fourth Most Wanted.

After all, she did not see him through rose-tinted eyes.

She knew his flaws and weaknesses, and more than that, she knew the depths of darkness that haunted his soul. And she knew the darkest deeds of which he was capable.

And somehow, despite those things, it seemed she had come to love him.

Or, maybe, it was because of those things. And because of her own personal connection to soul-deep darkness.

She had resisted any impulse to profile her own feelings for Reddington, excusing herself on the grounds that she could not objectively profile herself ... an excuse she had looked in the mirror and agreed was as lame a duck as it was possible to find. But still, somehow, she had to let him know that her intelligent, handsome, well-dressed, criminal associate was the man she truly wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

However, her profiling and character analysis of him meant she knew that those damaging depths and dark deeds were considerable stumbling blocks on the road between her and any possible future happiness with him.

Her profile from that distant near-meal in Montreal was still valid and accurate. He was a loner, but she had long ago realised that that was painfully a result of necessity and not choice. With the end of the List in sight, would he choose to continue that state of affairs? Keep his distance? Her profiling suggested that he craved physical contact as much as the next man; and no man is an island. Tight bonds had made and could continue to make him vulnerable; so would he agree to take on a longer lasting, more meaningful relationship? Could she persuade him that that was what she truly wanted? And that vulnerability could be a good thing in his life?

If she didn't at least give things a chance she would regret it for the rest of her life.

And as devastating as that would be ... she would at least know where she stood.

So when he asked … She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, because it was not typical behaviour and she tried to work out what might be behind the offer. If he was going to tell her that he was leaving she would have to find some way to convince him to stay. But, if he didn't feel the same way she did ...

'Yes. Why not?' Best not sound too eager at this point. Don't want to frighten him off. On the other hand, don't sound too unenthusiastic, she chided herself, and so, after a moment, she revised her answer to, 'That sounds like a great idea. What's the name of the place?'

And decided that she was being fanciful when she wanted to describe Red's expression at her words of acceptance as resembling that of a puppy. One who has just been offered his favourite treat.

 

*

 

'It looks like they're almost finished,' she said as they entered. 'Are you sure we're not late?'

A few people were sitting in scattered groups at tables facing a small stage where a band was playing. It was something jazz-related and the trumpet, saxophone, guitar, double bass and piano were taking it in turns to hold forth.

'It's fine, Lizzie, they're expecting us.' 

A man, clearly the bartender, came over to greet them.

'Lizzie, this is Mac. A bartender of immense discretion and limitless listening skills. I heartily recommend him,' Red announced cheerily.

Lizzie smiled and tried to imagine Red unburdening his soul to the man dressed in T-shirt and jeans and came up rather short. In fact, imagining Red unburdening to anyone who wasn't Dembe was a real stretch.

After they seated themselves and Mac had served their drinks, they sat for while in comfortable silence as the people who had been watching the group gradually gathered up their things and left; the band continued to play on quietly. She could only suppose that Red was paying them overtime to play especially for them.

Mac watched unobtrusively while he cleaned glasses and re-stocked shelves. He liked Red. The man was an enigma but he knew his jazz. And he was clearly completely sold on the woman he had spoken of many times, and over whom he was breaking his heart.

He had no idea what Red did for a living but he had a feeling it probably wasn't strictly legitimate; not that he ever enquired. That wasn't his job. His job was to listen. Which he did. The rest of the world held little interest for Mac. The one that ebbed and flowed inside the harbour of his bar was enough. He'd even banned a television. If people came in, it was for the music. Over the years, Mac had lost interest in what happened 'out there'. His world happened inside his club.

He watched Red and he had to hide a smile. The guy was trying so damned hard not to be over attentive but there was no way to hide what he really felt. At least, not to Mac who was a more than practised people watcher.

He remembered the first night Red came in.

Drenched to the skin. Desolate. Despairing.

Eventually releasing a few facts about the devastating evening that had left him seeking solace at Mac's bar, staring at the bottom of a tumbler of whiskey.

There was a woman.

There was always a woman in stories like Red's, Mac had long ago realised.

And he and she had fought.

About something that had fractured their ... not-sexual relationship.

Red had been very adamant about that.

Despite the row.

And the fact that she left and slammed the door.

Definitely. Not. Sexual.

Which didn't stop Mac deciding from the get-go that Red sure as heck wished it was.

And that he was in love with her.

They had talked about not much else that mattered for a while. Then Red just drank in silence. And Mac listened. To long stretches of silence.  

But, somehow, in the silence, or maybe because of the silence, a bond was forged.

And after a while Red had noted the piano.

And his eyes had asked the question.

And Mac had laughed and said sure, go ahead.

So Red had settled himself on the stool and had run his fingers over the keys as if seeking to re-familiarise himself with their feel and layout, as if they had once been good friends but were lately estranged. He had started with simple scales and then improved to an arpeggio or two, as the confidence grew in his fingers and they gradually settled into comfortable old rhythms, moving less and less rustily up and down the keys. And Mac had watched his shoulders relax and tension ease as he renewed his relationship. As if the piano absorbed his turmoil and released it in sound.

On many obviously sleepless nights since then, he had drifted in, nodded to Mac, who was usually the only one there, shed his hat, jacket and tie, unbuttoned his collar and vest, rolled up his sleeves and stayed until the early hours.

Sat at the piano. Playing.

Mac knew that sharing wasn't Red's thing. Heck, he didn't even know the dude's full name and, until tonight, he had not even known the name of the mysterious woman Red was all cut up about. All he knew was that late at night until sometimes well past dawn Red would play and he would, perhaps unconsciously, share the fact that the woman he loved either hated him or didn't trust him or was ignoring him by the music he chose. It was always easy for Mac to interpret.

There were nights when things were clearly on a more even keel. But those nights were fewer; possibly not because they happened less but because Red needed more of an outlet for his emotions when things were not going well, so came more often when things were bad. The piano was his therapist.

And Mac too. It was as if he could better share with someone who knew nothing of him and his life outside the club. But Mac had come to realise that their conversations were of secondary consideration to his late night visitor; it was Red's conversations with the piano that brought him back through the door time and again.

Mac finished up polishing glasses and found himself watching the woman. Lizzie.

No wonder Red was so taken with her.

And, if he wasn't mistaken, she was rather taken with him, too.

But, clearly, neither was sure of the other.

Not yet.

Mac smiled quietly to himself.

And continued to watch.

Finally Lizzie smiled and asked, 'How did you find this place?'

Red looked down at his drink for a long while before grimacing. He had dreaded questions like this, but there were things that they needed to talk about, somehow, if he was ever going to push the boundaries of where their relationship was now. Things that he needed them to at least acknowledge before he would feel comfortable. Events that they had not truly explored in a long time. No matter how much he wanted to move past and beyond, there was difficult terrain to traverse first. And Sam was part of that. 'I came here,' he paused, 'the night . . . you asked me about how ... Sam died.'

She remembered and a heavy weight settled for a moment in her heart, as it did whenever she thought about Sam. But so much had happened since.

And, although she had long ago come to terms with what had happened and how Sam had died, she was aware that Red hadn't.

She could see him retreat inside himself as she took the time to consider her words, which hadn't served as quite the ice-breaker she had hoped for, because what had happened between Red and Sam in that hospital room still flayed his soul. The problem was that many things flayed Raymond Reddington's soul.

He was a very damaged human being; no matter how he tried to portray otherwise. But she wanted to reach the part of him that had to believe he was still worth something. The small corner that knew that what he had done for Dembe, what he had done for her, what he had done for many others was a significant counter-weight to ... well ... everything else he had done in his life. And the fact that he felt so deeply about what had happened between him and Sam, that he felt so deeply about so many of the other terrible things that he had been forced to do, meant that he was a man who was worth something and a man who was worth saving from the pit of his own self-hatred; because if he didn't feel that way then he was truly the monster that she had once called him.

And she had long since realised that, so far as she was concerned, the last thing he was was a monster.

He was flawed.

Far from perfect.

Capable of great violence.

But he was also protective.

And caring.

And human.

And worth saving.

She just had to make him believe that he was worth saving.

And she had to make him believe that she thought he was worth saving.

And she needed to convince him quickly, before he started to wish that he hadn't organised this evening, decided it was a really bad idea and began to think about leaving.

'I don't know that 'asked' is quite how I'd describe my approach that night. Temper-tantrumed bat out of hell, would be a better description of my attitude, I think!' And she smiled. Please, she thought, please let him see that I am past Sam. Please let me be able to convince him it is not something that stands between us. Even if I have to shake it into him. 'I'm actually surprised I didn't grab a pen and stab you in the neck with it!'

The corner of his mouth flickered upwards towards a smile. 'Ah ... well … if I may say so, I'm pleased you refrained from the pen approach. Once was *quite* enough for me, thank you!' He was still watchful although he seemed less tense, but it caught her heart in a net of remorse that he still felt so bowed down by the burden of what had happened so long ago now. Aeons, if she viewed it across the chaotic metropolis of everything since.

She reached out and gently took hold of one of his hands.

'Red ... Sam knew then, and always knew, how much I owed to you. And wherever he is now, he knows how much more I have come to owe you since then. And so do I.'

'But that night . . .'

'That night belongs to a different lifetime, Red. I was a different person. There were things I didn't know then. About you. About me. About everything. Now, I know that ... what you did for Sam ... what you've done for me ... was always what you thought was the best thing.'

She was certain his hand trembled just a fraction.

'So ...' she swept the conversation onwards, 'you came here. And kept on coming here?'

'Yes. Mac picked me up off the floor that night. Not an easy thing, I assure you.'

She grinned. 'Well, you did carry a little more weight in those days!'

'Indeed!' His smile was approaching more genuine now.  And they smiled and both truly realised how different the landscape had become. How the tune had changed. The strident cacophony of thunderous anger from that night and from other early days of their relationship was something lost beyond the horizon of all that they had survived since. The demons with which they had both had to deal had forged a bond that perhaps neither had completely accepted until now.

She had been calling him Red for longer than she could actually recall. She was comfortable reaching out. Comfortable holding his hand.

They both looked down at their hands lying together like the two interlocking halves of a sea shell.

'And since?' she prompted.

'Well, I come here as often as I can. Blacklisters allowing. I find it soothing. And I have become rather fond of the place; and of Mac.'

She looked around and had to admit there was a restful charm to the wood-panelled walls, lined with pictures of musicians captured in a multitude of uninhibited postures, all lost in the throes of  unconstrained jazz musicianship. The tables and chairs had a comfortably worn look to them, as if they had settled into their places and become accustomed to those positions and, after long occupancy, would be incredibly affronted to have to move on anywhere else. Something about each set seemed to speak of its own relaxed personality acquired over long evenings spent in comfortable company. Which was ridiculous and Lizzie couldn't believe that she was being so fanciful, but the pieces of furniture truly looked like old friends gathered round on a weathered front porch for coffee and a group gossip.

Red seemed to read her thoughts. 'Don't tell Mac, but I know that the finances aren't great and I'm thinking of investing. I've always fancied myself as a music entrepreneur, or producer, or some such thing, and I think this could be the perfect opportunity. What do you think?'

'Well, you're going to need a new career soon, when we finish up the List, so that would be a great idea.' And it would keep him in the vicinity, if he was serious. Which would be wonderful.

She gave him an encouraging smile and decided that he was almost certainly more than half serious. And that it was definitely an idea for her to cultivate and encourage.

He found himself being gently swallowed up in her smile.

Rarely had she graced him with such an openly relaxed and ... yes ... he was sure ... friendly ... smile.

His stomach rolled over like a puppy desperate for its belly to be rubbed and he hoped against hope that she'd smile at him like that again.

And he started to wonder if possibly there was a chance that she might ... see in him someone who was more than a criminal. More than someone who was capable of cruel and cold blooded acts and that he might even, somehow, miraculously gravitate into the category of someone that she might want to spend more time with when the Blacklist was done.

She knew the truth about it. But that still left many hurdles between them, he thought. Sam seemed to be less of a barrier than he'd envisaged. However, he had quite a list of others.

Still, maybe ... maybe ... they were surmountable as well?

And even though there were things in the darkness that would always stop him from standing in the full sunlight ever again, which was something his soul struggled with every day, maybe, if he showed her the shreds of his soul that did manage to struggle out of the shadows, there was a possibility that might be enough?

Maybe?

He was still recovering from her smile, and decided that he really needed to give himself a breather. Everything was getting to be much more than he had bargained for. He hadn't planned on getting in so deep tonight. At least, he had convinced himself that it wouldn't get so complicated and involved so quickly. Although, maybe, underneath it all he had realised he was deluding himself.

Either way, he needed a time-out. He should have brought a cigar. Maybe he could scrounge a sly cigarette from Mac. He needed something!

He coughed lightly. 'Excuse me, Lizzie. I'll be back in a short while.'

She watched him slip off towards the bathroom and wondered if it was her smile that had scared him.

The man was struggling. She could tell. And yet, everything seemed coated in a far more thought-provoking layer of hope than she had ever tasted before.

Because if it was her smile, and she was fairly certain that it had been, there had to be a reason it had sent him into something of a tail spin. And she was coming up with lots of very promising ones!

'Well, Lizzie,' Mac grinned. 'I'm pleased to finally meet you.'

She looked up in guarded surprise. 'Thank you. I think.'

'No problem. It's real nice to be able to put a face and a name to you.'

She laughed and took a sip of her drink. 'He didn't give me a name?'

'Nope. Not until he introduced you to me tonight. Just talked about you a bit and played the piano a whole lot.'

She somehow managed to not splutter her wine across the table. 'He plays the piano?'

Mac grinned. 'Yeah. I'm guessing that's a surprise to you? He said it would be if you ever found out.'

She placed her wine glass carefully back on the table. 'I . . . had no idea.'

'The first time he came in, he went over and started playing. Said he hadn't played in years but it soon started to come back to him. Played for hours. Gave me the biggest tip I've ever received and left just as it was getting light.' 

She found herself smiling. 'Wow ... And then he kept coming back?'

'Yeah. Sure did. Said it helped sort out his mind. Came back quite often. When he was in town. Travels a bit, but I guess you know that, huh?'

She nodded.

'Anyhow, he drifts in late, when he's not sleeping so well, I guess. And plays. I kinda know how you guys are doing by the music he plays.'

She felt her gaze sharpen. And guessed Mac would have seen it too. 'What do you mean? How we're doing? I mean, we're not ... doing, ummm ... anything. There's no ... how we're doing ... as you call it!'

Not yet, anyway, she thought to herself. But if Red's been playing out our whatever-it-is-he-thinks-we-have-or-don't-have relationship on the piano, maybe there's an even greater chance of success than I thought. Maybe he really isn't so far out of my reach after all.

'Well, possibly not, but I sure as heck knew when you were pissed at him. Took it out on that poor piano let me tell you. Plenty of nights I've had to listen to endless renditions of 'Strange Fruit' and the like. When he was upset that tune was a real favourite. Then he would dig out some Thelonius Monk kinda stuff, too. Real sad. Real dark.'

Mac gave her a grin.

'You had no idea, right?'

That Red played the piano?

That Red played the piano late at night in a jazz club?

That Red played tunes that gave his barkeep friend signals about how well his supposed-relationship-in-inverted-commas with her was balanced?

She shook her head. 'None.'

Absolutely none.

But suddenly the possibilities seemed a whole bunch of roses cheerier than they ever had before.

'Ah, well. Suffice to say I preferred it when he was a bit more chipper. I knew when you ... ah ... when he was happier. Played a different set of tunes then.'

'Amazing. This secret life he's been leading all this time.' The man was the master of secret lives it seemed.

'Then we introduced this band night thing and he started coming to that. And sort of got talking to Henry, that's the guy on drums, he knows everything there is to know about jazz, I'm telling you. But he said Red knew more than he did. Was really impressed. So . . . he came more often if he could and he and Henry talked music 'til all hours. Tell you, takes something to impress Henry, but your guy surely did that.'

She decided to let the 'your guy' comment pass. After all, even if Red wasn't ‘her guy’ as of right this minute, she was definitely hoping to be able to claim him at some point in the very near future. And, if everything Mac was saying was true, her case really didn't seem as challenging as she had thought it might be before she walked into the club. All this talk of playing tunes to reflect his mood, a mood dictated by the way she had reacted to him, all sounded really quite ... optimistic!

'It's just funny to find out something so fundamental about someone you thought you knew quite well.'

'He's a funny guy, Red,' Mac said, smiling without any hint of malice.

'You really have no idea.'

'Thinks the world of you though. Hope you don't mind me saying?'

She gave Mac a radiant smile.

'Ummmm ... no. I don't mind you saying.'

I really don't.

At all.

In fact ...

Please, say it again.

Because I'm hugging your words against my heart like a soft cuddly pillow. That I want to hold on to forever.

So, please, say it again.

And, while you're at it, what other grand insights into Red's thoughts and habits can you ...

There was a somewhat less than discreet cough by her ear, followed by, 'Am I interrupting?'

Yes.

You are.

‘Mac was just kindly telling me about your piano playing.'

'Ah. Telling tales out of school, my friend?'

'Well, you'd deserted her, so I was just taking an opportunity to get to know a new customer a little better, like all good bar keeps should.'

Red laughed. 'And to break the bar stool confessional while you're at it?'

Mac grinned back. 'If you hadn't wanted me to talk to her, you shouldn't have brought her and then left her all on her lonesome.' He pulled himself to his feet and picking up the empty glasses headed back to the bar.

Respectful of their presence and mood, the band played quietly in the background -- a rise and falling conversation of saxophone, a brash call and then more reserved answering echo of trumpet, a brushing whisper of bristles on drumskin, and a deep monotone of double bass. All while the tender, respectful piano spoke with each in turn, and then, like a well-versed hostess, introduced them to each other for gently informal discussions.

'They're good.' Red looked over at the group. 'I like what they play.'

'I thought you went to the Village Vanguard? That time with Ressler ... in the box ...'

He smiled sadly. 'I used to. Loved going there.'

'What changed?'

'It started to get a little too busy. A bit too ... public.'

'Oh?'

'Actors and the like. People with cameras looking for pictures. Not very safe.'

'So ... you started coming here more?'

'They do some good jazz nights. Lesser named bands and musicians, but just because they aren't so well-known doesn't mean they aren't talented.'

'These guys are good. I mean ... I don't know jazz that much, but I like this tune.'

'Yes. They're a good bunch. They even let amateurs join in occasionally.'

She took a moment to get his drift.

'You?'

His mouth curled into something that was heading down the road towards embarrassment before he steadied his nerve and nodded.

'Mac said you played when it was late at night. On your own.'

'Well, yes. To start with. I didn't want to inflict my woeful attempts on anyone apart from Mac, who was a very kind and understanding listener. And Dembe, of course. However, one night the band came in late and we started talking, and one thing led to another, and I played a little something and they ... didn't laugh quite as much as I thought they might, and they allowed me to play with them a little, and then I started coming to watch them play and .. well ... it sort of went from there.'

'I just would never have picked you as a piano player.'

He quirked her a smile. 'Is it not in my file?'

'Not that I'm aware. Although, in fairness, I still don't think I've read the whole thing! It runs to several boxes, you know. Ressler was very thorough.'

'Very large and hefty tomes, I understand. But ... yes. I play the piano.'

'When did you start?'

'I had lessons as a child. For a number of years. And my teacher thought I showed some ... promise.'

'Then?'

'Well ... like most teenage boys, other interests took over and the piano got lost along the way. I did play again after my daughter was born. It calmed her when she was a baby and she couldn't sleep. And then, later, she started ballet lessons and when I was home I played pieces for her so that she could practice. She was rather good at ballet so the pieces got quite technical as we went along. I even got to the point where I could play a version of Swan Lake ... after a fashion, anyway.'

His face grew momentarily reflective and sad.

Trying to distract him, she changed the subject. 'Do you play any other instruments?'

'No. Or none that I've tried. I always wanted to play the drums but ...' he laughed, 'you can't be quiet and subtle and go unnoticed and play the drums! Not very suitable for a fugitive from justice.'

'And now?'

'Well ... I suppose, if everything goes through as dear Harold anticipates, I could celebrate my removal from the FBI's Most Wanted wall by buying a drum kit and making as much noise as I like. Although, to be fair, there are still likely to be people who will ...  dislike me. So, it might not be a great idea, even then. Sadly.' He looked momentarily quite woeful at this thought.

Lizzie couldn't help the laughter that bubbled over her lips and spilled loose into the space between them.

'What?' He looked a little affronted.

'I just can't imagine you ... playing the drums!'

'No? I'll have you know that in my imagination Keith Moon has absolutely nothing on me!'

'Well ... you dream on.' Secretly she was adoring these little insights. In about an hour she had learned more about the man behind the suits and ties than in years of deflected conversations and carefully refracted observations. And she was loving every moment because, if this was all she ever had, she could store these little gems away in her own private jewellery box and take them out to admire and remember. But was she wrong to think that he was allowing her to see something more of him for a reason? That maybe his motives in this evening were not dissimilar to her own?

He seemed increasingly relaxed. Much less guarded.

Did she dare to hope?

The band who had been playing all this time finished and quietly excused themselves.

Now, there were just Liz, Red and Mac. She was sure Dembe must be about somewhere but he was being discreetly invisible.

'Red?' She hesitated.

He tilted his head in enquiry.

'Would you play? The piano. For me?'

His eyes widened fractionally and she wasn't sure if it was shock or surprise or nervousness. Raymond Reddington, looking nervous?  Surely not!

His eyes flitted to the piano now sitting dormant. This whole evening was catching him out. He had anticipated listening to the sort of music that he loved, introducing her to the club and to Mac. Nothing more. The whole place had come to mean so much to him and he felt comfortable here. It wasn't a temporary home from which he would have to move on tomorrow or the next day, never quite knowing when he would be able to return. He might reside in any number of hotels or safe houses dotted around the city but, no matter which one he inhabited, if time allowed, he made his way here. It had become a comforting refuge. A shelter.

A strangely-landlocked version of the yacht he had always dreamed of owning.

Here, instead of being lost in solitude on the high seas, he was swept away in the free landscaped thrall of jazz.

The music encompassing him as would the free sea air, the clarinet calling sharply like the gulls circling above, bass beating time like the sea against the hull and fingers snapping like the rigging and sails in the wind.   

Surrounding him.

Embracing him.

Holding him.

And he wanted her to feel that too.

Or, at least, hopefully, understand how he felt.

What his soul could feel.

That his soul *could* feel.

Because, if his soul could feel he had always felt that there was something left of the innocent youth and the callow, idealistic young man he'd once been. Before so many tragic deeds infected his life. If, one day, jazz failed to touch him and move him and call to him then he had decided he would indeed be truly soulless and finally beyond any thread of redemption. A cold husk of a man who had nothing left worth offering to anyone.

But ... to play ...

Was to expose something deeper, more honest, more true about himself.

And yet ... what else had he come here for?

If not now?

Why not?

If not now?

Then when?

His heart pounded like feet striving to keep time to a steadily increasing rhythm and his blood echoed in his ears with the deep plunging sound of plucked notes on the strings of a double bass.

Somehow ... gather your courage, he admonished himself.

Because, if not now ... then, truly, when?

Making up his mind, he stood and made his way to the stool.

Lizzie watched fascinated, as Red flexed his fingers, seated himself and started to play a scale or two. Carefully and slowly, almost as if he was starting an awkward conversation and was uncertain of his words; his fingers traced a pattern up and down the keys, seeming somewhat embarrassed to commence in earnest.

She admired his hands for some while as he warmed them up: the strong fingers, the carefully manicured nails, the gently tanned skin.

And tried not to think of the terrible deeds she had seen those hands perform on other occasions, usually a trigger pulled with clinical composure as it meant he could remain distanced from his victim. Rarely had Red sullied his immaculate suits or done something that disturbed the poise of his fedora. So handguns  were often his weapon of choice. But she knew there had been other times, when she was not a witness, when his hands had committed terrible acts.

She shook her head and concentrated on the here and now.

As notes dropped into the room and slowly a gentle tune she recognised emerged, as the rise and fall of the scales were left behind. A quiet tune. Thoughtful. Not quite what she would have expected.

She sat and admired his straight back, the proud set of his shoulders, the line of his neck and the curve of his skull with its covering of fine down at the neck and the easy-to-maintain close crop that covered the back of his scalp; and the manner in which, after a while, he unconsciously tilted his head to one side.

He looked great in a tux. She had always thought so, from the first time she saw him in one that long time ago at the charity fundraiser organised by Floriana Campo. How distant that was. And yet, how like yesterday. So many times since she had seen him dressed like this. But ... always with a function in mind that was work-related. Never just for her. And she hadn't been quite able to find her way through the crowded marketplace of her thoughts to understand why he had insisted on wearing it tonight.

But ... recalling Mac's words again she could begin to believe that Red felt something for her that he had kept carefully hidden, as he had hidden his not inconsiderable talents for playing the piano.

He was really quite good.

She watched the fabric stretch and relax across his shoulders as his arms reached up and down the keyboard.

After a while he stopped playing, stood up and removed his jacket and loosened his bow tie so that it hung loose, and undid the top stud of his dress shirt. Then, after a moment's thought, he unclipped his cufflinks and rolled up his sleeves.

Sitting again, he seemed a more relaxed and fluid and the music began to flow. It made her think of clear spring water, sparkling with reflections of dappled sunlight, smoothing its way over pebbles, twinkling through shaded woods, untouched and untroubled.

Perfection and clarity and harmony.

And she found that the sound soothed and rested her.

And she was lost.

In the sound of the music.

And she was lost.

In the sight of him.

The rippling of the tendons and muscles as they danced under the tanned skin of his forearms; the bones in the back of his hands that tensed and flexed as his fingers covered the keys.

And she found herself imagining those hands on her own skin.

Touching her with the affection andcare that he showed to the keys.

All she could concentrate on was the man at the piano, who had shut his eyes and was nodding his chin in time with the beat, and she felt her heart tug as a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth and he tilted his head once more in that achingly familiar manner he had.

Red played well. Nothing too fancy. He didn't throw his hands around but used them with an economy of movement, as if he was wary of letting go; as if releasing emotion was dangerous. Which, in truth, for so long, it had been.

She looked with appreciation at the spread of his shoulders and the upright brace of his spine. She had noticed before, of course she had. It was impossible not to and she even found the slight thickening of his waist deliciously attractive. But, here, she was free to look and admire like never before.

And the man's charisma was like releasing a surge of electricity into a room.

Gradually, the tunes enveloped her, cupping her face in their gentle reassuring hands and running their thumbs along her cheekbones, feathering their fingertips down the outside of her neck and brushing across her shoulders. She imagined Red doing that. And continuing on, stroking softly down her arms … holding her …

As the music played.

And slowly, after a while, he began to feel more comfortable, less self-conscious. A ridiculous notion! Self-conscious? When had he last experienced that? And, suddenly, it was easier, because he realised that he could let the music and the piano speak for him, to convey his message to her and that, maybe, it was easier that way. After all, he wasn't even facing her. And, maybe this was better than looking her in the eyes and blurting out, “Lizzie, I love you.” And he had long ago decided that the getting down on one knee thing would just result in embarrassing creaks from joints that ached a little too much after years of abuse and beatings.

So maybe he should just play.

Because he sure as hell couldn't sing.

And he wanted her to know, didn't he?

Wasn't that really what this night was all about?

Like your life depends on it.

Because ...

Actually ...

It does.

So now, like he had on all those lonely nights with only Mac for an audience, he played out loud his feelings for his relationship with Lizzie.

But tonight he played out loud the relationship he was hoping for in the future with Lizzie.

And he played for his relationship with Lizzie.

And he played for Lizzie.

Because the music *could* do it better than he could.

Ask the questions he didn't dare.

_What Are You Doing The Rest Of Your Life?_

He played with every muscle, nerve and sinew; and he played with his desperate, lonely heart and with his aching, hopeful soul.

And he let the tunes say what he wanted to say.

Wordlessly. Although the lyrics spun like precious stardust in his mind.

_What are you doing the rest of your life? The north and south and east and west of your life. I have only one request of your life, that you spend it all with me. All the seasons and the times of your days, all the nickels and dimes of your days, let the reasons and rhymes of your days, all begin and end with me._

And once he'd started, taken the plunge, and there was no going back, he lost the coiled tension that was wrapped in his chest. Tune followed tune.

He'd jumped off the cliff so he might as well enjoy the scenery on the way down. If he crash landed there was nothing he could do about that now.

So he just played.

And played.

_Night and day, you are the one, only you 'neath the moon or under the sun, whether near to me or far, it's no matter darling where you are, I think of you day and night, night and day._

The piano was such a familiar escape that soon it swallowed him whole. Music had become something that allowed him to slide into a parallel universe and forget about the troubles he had in this one. Something that started in his fingertips as they touched the keys and gradually soaked into every fibre of his being as if they were sponges absorbing the rhythm and tone and feeling as he played. His heart felt lighter. His soul released from shackles that normally weighed it down. And the freedom poured through his veins, gloriously separating him from everything around him.

He knew others felt this way when they witnessed a magnificently coloured sunrise; when they smelled the meadowsweet flowers of Summer; when they saw dolphins leap joyously over waves in the freedom of the ocean; when they touched their innocent newborn for the first time.

But this ...

For him ...

Was now ...

His sunrise.

His meadow.

His leap.

His newborn.

His moment of today, tomorrow, always. His hope of life, love, forever.

His joy.

His place.

His time.

Let Lizzie see.

This other side to me.

This other side to me.

And surely, if she didn't know the others, she had to recognise _I've Got You Under My Skin._

And if she didn't know the tunes let her recognise the emotion, the sentiment, the message.

And so he played.

And she listened.

And although she had no idea of the tunes, they spoke of emotions she had never associated with him.

Words she had never associated with him.

Because words like assured, menacing, lethal and polished fitted him like the tailored three-pieced suits he wore so well.

But words like affection, desire, passion, romance ... love.

Were words she had never associated with him.

Not with him.

Those words she had always used in relation to herself.

And what she had come to feel.

For him.

But, she had never truly dared to think of him feeling those things.

And especially not feeling those things for her.

And yet the music spoke of those words.

And, clearly, they were intended to speak to her.

Even if he wasn't an expert player there was no hiding the sentiment. His heartfelt message.

And her heart began to swell because there in front of her was someone achingly familiar yet someone she didn't recognise.

And she was sure she couldn't be wrong.

About what he wanted the music to say.

And she listened with ever increasing belief.

Just closed her eyes.

And listened.

Absorbed the music. And his message.

With her heart. And with her soul.

And when, finally, he'd finished playing, somehow, it was as if a spring had wound down.

And he sat.

And she sat.

And there was a stillness. And silence.

And his heart stopped beating.

And her heart stopped beating.

And their blood settled like sediment in their veins.

And the future waited, paused in the breathless moment beneath the conductor's poised baton.

And he was afraid.

To turn around.

To look at her.

And she was afraid.

To open her eyes.

To look at him.

But, because he had trained himself to do the difficult things so often now ...

He turned around.

And looked.

And, because she had trained herself to do the difficult things so often now ...

She opened her eyes.

And looked.

And he saw her.

And she saw him.

And they saw.

And they read each other with true and open honesty for the very first time.

He saw the love in her eyes.

She saw the love in his eyes.

And it was as if some sort of magnetic pull lifted her out of her chair and placed one foot in front of the other until she was standing there beside him and neither one had seemingly blinked and neither one had seemingly breathed.

And he lifted a hand from the piano keys.

And she reached a hand across the space.

And they touched.

And it was as if the rest of the universe had ceased to be.

'Lizzie, ... ' His quiet voice stalled.

And their eyes continued to hold.

She whispered, 'That was ... '

And still neither looked away.

And their hands held.

As if each was frightened that letting go would mean the other would slip away.

Be lost.

'Lizzie ...' There was a threshold his words seemed unable to cross.

So she squeezed his hand in encouragement.

And he found a way.

'I wanted to show you that I can be ... different. That there is a Raymond Reddington that you don't know. You know the ... Fourth Most Wanted. And ... I hate that you know him so very, very well. I wish ... that you didn't.'

'Red, I would hate that I didn't know him.'

'But he's a criminal, Lizzie. He’s has done so many terrible things. It doesn't matter what the reasons were, and you know the reasons were ... valid and sincere. They were still awful crimes.' His words trailed away into silence.

'Red, everything you did, the fact that you still blame yourself, that you carry that burden, means you are a worthy man.'

'But *this* man, who loves jazz, who ... plays the piano, I want that man ... a man you never met until tonight ... I want him to be ... a man … the man … you might be able to ... fall in love with.' There. He'd said it. And his voice trembled with emotion. Because now, there was no taking it back.

And she could do nothing but reveal the truth. 'Red, I can't fall in love with that man.'

He shivered, as if letting her words sink through his skin and into his soul and she couldn't let him misunderstand her, not for a fraction of another second.

'I can't fall in love with that man because I'm already in love with you. I have been for a long while. I couldn't even tell you when it first started.'

And the wondrous disbelief was a grand chorus in his heart. 'You are?'

She nodded. And watched his eyes well with tears.

And she knew her own were wet.

And, somehow, he was standing and yet she failed to remember him moving.

Their hands parted. But it was safe and she knew she would not lose him, because, she knew, that she had him now. For now. For life. For ever.

And, as she'd long imagined him doing, he cupped her face in gentle, reassuring hands that were not imaginary, they couldn't be because they lacked the smoothness she had imagined and grazed her skin with calloused thumbs that carefully, yet with unavoidable roughness, skimmed away her tears; and then she felt his lips, which *were* as gentle as she always imagined, touch with reverence the remaining traces of saltiness on her cheeks, and she heard his emotion-roughened voice tell her that everything was okay. That everything was going to be okay. That everything would always be okay.

Now. Forever. Always.

And there was no space between them. Nothing between them.

There was no past. There was only their now and their future together.

His hands slipped from her face but before she could regret their leaving he had gathered her to him and she wound her own around his waist and it seemed the most natural thing in the world, joining him within a circle of arms, as they blended perfectly and completed each other.

And she remembered, and she was sure he did too, the other times he had held her: the bandstand, the music box, the ship's hold, on the run, so many other times.  But he had never held her like this: like he had a right to, like he would never let her go. And she had never held on to him with such understanding and hope and trust and ... love.

And how long they stood there, neither of them knew nor cared.

Until there was the sound of quietly unobtrusive music. The band. Recognising the moment.

She felt the strength of his shoulder under her cheek and beneath the thin thread of his shirt.

She felt the brush of his breath stir through her hair.

And, after some time, when she looked up, she saw the delicate lines of his face as his eyes narrowed and he looked carefully into her own. She looked beyond the once stormy sea-green surface into the now calmer, more restful depths.

And she smiled.

And he smiled back.

And he felt the weight of her head rest once again against his shoulder. Saw the delicate wing-beat of her pulse in her neck. Was absorbed into the circle of her arms and she within his.

And his head tilted gently as his lips quietly quested for hers.

And the band played.

And Mac smiled.

And the couple kissed.

And the future beckoned.

 

_The End._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
